第 45 页

‘Why, here,’ said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-piece

above the Doctor’s head, ‘the dear fellow says to the Doctor

himself--where is it? Oh!--“I am sorry to inform you that my health is

suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity

of returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration.” That’s

pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie’s

letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again.’

‘Not now, mama,’ she pleaded in a low tone.

‘My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most

ridiculous persons in the world,’ returned her mother, ‘and perhaps the

most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have

heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself.

Do you call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am

surprised. You ought to know better.’

The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old lady,

I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it, trembled.

‘Now let us see,’ said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her eye,

‘where the passage is. “The remembrance of old times, my dearest

Annie”--and so forth--it’s not there. “The amiable old Proctor”--who’s

he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how

stupid I am! “Doctor,” of course. Ah! amiable indeed!’ Here she left

off, to kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was looking

at us in a state of placid satisfaction. ‘Now I have found it. “You may

not be surprised to hear, Annie,”--no, to be sure, knowing that he never

was really strong; what did I say just now?--“that I have undergone

so much in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all

hazards; on sick leave, if I can; on total resignation, if that is

not to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is

insupportable.” And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures,’

said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and refolding

the letter, ‘it would be insupportable to me to think of.’

Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as if

for his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely silent, with

his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject was dismissed,

and other topics occupied us, he remained so; seldom raising his eyes,

unless to rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful frown, upon the

Doctor, or his wife, or both.

The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness and

expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together, and played duets

together, and we had quite a little concert. But I remarked two things:

first, that though Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quite

herself, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which separated

them wholly from each other; secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed

to dislike the intimacy between her and Agnes, and to watch it with

uneasiness. And now, I must confess, the recollection of what I had seen

on that night when Mr. Maldon went away, first began to return upon me

with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent beauty

of her face was not as innocent to me as it had been; I mistrusted the

natural grace and charm of her manner; and when I looked at Agnes by her

side, and thought how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose within

me that it was an ill-assorted friendship.

She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so happy too,

that they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour. It closed

in an incident which I well remember. They were taking leave of each

other, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr.

Wickfield stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnes

quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening time had been

cancelled, and I were still standing in the doorway on the night of the

departure, the expression of that night in the face of Mrs. Strong, as

it confronted his.

I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible I

found it, when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from this

look, and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It haunted

me when I got home. I seemed to have left the Doctor’s roof with a dark

cloud lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his grey head, was

mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous

to him, and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending

shadow of a great affliction, and a great disgrace that had no distinct

form in it yet, fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had

worked and played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure

in thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees, which

remained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim

smooth grass-plot, and the stone urns, and the Doctor’s walk, and the

congenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as

if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face,

and its peace and honour given to the winds.

But morning brought with it my parting from the old house, which Agnes

had filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind sufficiently.

I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might sleep again--perhaps

often--in my old room; but the days of my inhabiting there were gone,

and the old time was past. I was heavier at heart when I packed up such

of my books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover,

than I cared to show to Uriah Heep; who was so officious to help me,

that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I was going.

I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indifferent show

of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of the London coach.

I was so softened and forgiving, going through the town, that I had half

a mind to nod to my old enemy the butcher, and throw him five shillings

to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stood

scraping the great block in the shop, and moreover, his appearance was

so little improved by the loss of a front tooth which I had knocked out,

that I thought it best to make no advances.

The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road,

was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak extremely

gruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience; but

I stuck to it, because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.

‘You are going through, sir?’ said the coachman.

‘Yes, William,’ I said, condescendingly (I knew him); ‘I am going to

London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.’

‘Shooting, sir?’ said the coachman.

He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of

year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, pretending to be undecided, ‘whether I shall

take a shot or not.’ ‘Birds is got wery shy, I’m told,’ said William.

‘So I understand,’ said I.

‘Is Suffolk your county, sir?’ asked William.

‘Yes,’ I said, with some importance. ‘Suffolk’s my county.’

‘I’m told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,’ said William.

I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the

institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them; so I

shook my head, as much as to say, ‘I believe you!’

‘And the Punches,’ said William. ‘There’s cattle! A Suffolk Punch, when

he’s a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any

Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?’

‘N-no,’ I said, ‘not exactly.’

‘Here’s a gen’lm’n behind me, I’ll pound it,’ said William, ‘as has bred

‘em by wholesale.’

The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint,

and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat

brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way

up outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over

the coachman’s shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled

the back of my head; and as I looked at him, he leered at the leaders

with the eye with which he didn’t squint, in a very knowing manner.

‘Ain’t you?’ asked William.

‘Ain’t I what?’ said the gentleman behind.

‘Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?’

‘I should think so,’ said the gentleman. ‘There ain’t no sort of orse

that I ain’t bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some

men’s fancy. They’re wittles and drink to me--lodging, wife, and

children--reading, writing, and Arithmetic--snuff, tobacker, and sleep.’

‘That ain’t a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it

though?’ said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.

I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have

my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

‘Well, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said William, ‘I think it would be more

correct.’

I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I

booked my place at the coach office I had had ‘Box Seat’ written against

the entry, and had given the book-keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in

a special great-coat and shawl, expressly to do honour to that

distinguished eminence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal; and

had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first

stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other

merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across

me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a

canter!

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small

occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not

stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury

coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spoke

from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt

completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there

behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with plenty of

money in my pocket; and to look out for the places where I had slept on

my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every

conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the trampers

whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up,

I felt as if the tinker’s blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt

again. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I

caught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived

who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the

place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my

money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed the

veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy

hand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down

and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of

establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the

coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber,

which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault.

I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe

of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions

on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering

advice to my inexperience.

‘Well now,’ said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, ‘what would you

like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general: have a fowl!’

I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the humour for

a fowl.

‘Ain’t you?’ said the waiter. ‘Young gentlemen is generally tired of

beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!’

I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest

anything else.

‘Do you care for taters?’ said the waiter, with an insinuating smile,

and his head on one side. ‘Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed

with taters.’

I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and

potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if there

were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire--which I knew there

were not, and couldn’t be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.

He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much

surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the

fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it;

and on my replying ‘Half a pint of sherry,’ thought it a favourable

opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the

stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this

opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed him

behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very

busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemist

and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I

thought it flat; and it certainly had more English crumbs in it, than

were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, but

I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.

Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that

poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process), I

resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I chose;

and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the

new Pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and

walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern

taskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful

effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, the

influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company, the

smooth stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so

dazzling, and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I

came out into the rainy street, at twelve o’clock at night, I felt as if

I had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic life